


looking for eden

by susanpevensie (steelthighsvoideyes)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: But Aerith lives, Canon Compliant, F/F, Flower Expert!Aerith, Kickboxer!Tifa, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 19:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16414133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelthighsvoideyes/pseuds/susanpevensie
Summary: Tifa finds a flower for every win and a girl for her loss.





	looking for eden

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank everyone who encouraged me to keep writing this. It took me so much longer than it needed to, and without that support, it would have taken much longer. 
> 
> I was particularly excited about writing this story because crafting it and finding flower meanings to fit was certainly a challenge. I really hope you guys enjoy it! Also I'm in LOVE with Tifa and wanted to write fighter!Tifa soooooo badly. 
> 
> This is un-betaed so please excuse any spelling/grammar/pacing errors. 
> 
> Happy Reading!

The crowd roars wildly as Tifa’s right uppercut finds its mark just under the guy’s chin. Her ears are pounding with their cheers and the rush of blood through her body. Tifa realigns her feet back into kicking stance, settles weight onto the balls of her feet, and finishes her opponent off with a straight and powerful left jab to the chest, just beneath the sternum.

Her opponent—a broad Sector 6 Gym Rat type—loses the last of his remaining balance and topples onto his back, the breath thoroughly knocked out of his body. The referee rushes over immediately and begins his countdown. _10, 9, 8—_ Tifa barely hears him, instead focusing on calming her gasping lungs and zeroing in on her fallen opponent. If he does manage to get up, she needs to be ready. It’s been a long and arduous fight. The last thing she needs is to be caught off guard and beaten at the last second. There’s too much gil on the line for that.

She crashes back into chaotic reality when her brain finally registers the utter madness of the crowd’s cheering. The referee takes her wrist and swings her arm into the air, prompting another round of gleeful screams before the audience descends into chanting _Ti-fa! Ti-fa! Ti-fa!_

It’s only when her blood stops pounding in her ears that Tifa realizes she’s won yet again.

A grin so wide it aches her reddened cheeks stretches across her face, and Tifa finally allows herself to bask in her victory, raising her other arm to wave back at the crowd. The audience has become somewhat accustomed to her as of late. Money-wise, at least, Tifa knows her victory streak has increased the betting odds in her favor in recent days. It therefore isn’t too surprising that the betting crowd has also grown to be on her side as well.

After what Tifa deems to be enough of a spectacle, she looks to the referee and nods. Her opponent has found his way back onto his feet at this point as well, so the referee releases her wrist in order to facilitate an amicable handshake of sportsmanship between the two competitors. Tifa doesn’t hang around too long after that, a wave of exhaustion threatening to darken her vision if she doesn’t take a seat and chug some water.

She ducks out of the ring and makes her way to the corner of the floor where she’d set down her belongings. There’s a throng of people bustling around the room now, many of whom try to infiltrate Tifa’s space for photos or to offer their congratulations, but Tifa’s employed Wedge to be her second hand on these kinds of nights. So he ensures that her things remain untouched during the match and that she enjoys a bubble of peace as she comes down from the high of her fight.

It's as she slumps down onto the rickety metal chair sitting amongst her things and leans forward to grab the water bottle out of her gym bag that she notices the flower. Laying across the expanse of her bag is a single blossom that vaguely reminds Tifa of a cinnamon bun.The petals wrap around one another in an almost completely circular pattern, beginning with a beautiful peach of a pink in the outer rings and transitioning to a fresh, lemony yellow towards the center. It's unlike any flower Tifa has ever seen—not that she sees too many here in the slums—and she catches herself smiling despite her weary state.

"Wedge?" she calls to her friend standing guard at the perimeter of her corner. He's been attempting to keep the growing number of fans at bay, explaining hastily and with as much authority as he can that no, Tifa will not be signing autographs tonight. So far tonight, he's done pretty well as the crowd has begun to ebb away, and he's granted a moment to turn towards Tifa when she speaks.

"Sup?" he asks.

"Thanks for the flower. It's beautiful," Tifa replies, absentmindedly stroking the petals, amazed by how silky they feel between her fingertips. "Where did you even find it?"

Wedge looks at her like she's sprouted two heads. His gaze drifts to the flower in her hands and he furrows his brow, mouth slightly open in bewilderment.

"I—yeah, that wasn't me," he confesses. "I have no idea how that got there."

Tifa frowns.

"Haven't you been standing watch? You should have seen someone come here and put a flower on my stuff, right?"

Wedge rubs his neck sheepishly.

"Weeeeeeell," he starts, "it's kind of hard to watch over your stuff when you're out there fighting like that. You're pretty impressive to watch, and I hate missing out. I wouldn't be surprised if you've got yourself a fan."

He juts his chin out in a gesture to point at the flower Tifa is holding, and her eyes drop to rake over those tightly wrapped petals once more. She allows the tips of her fingers brush across the surface of the flower and frowns in thought.

 

* * *

 

Tifa can’t really imagine a life where she didn’t know MMA. She’s only practiced Mixed Martial Arts for 5 years or so, but it feels engrained deep in her bones, like she was born with it written into her. These underground night time fights, however, are not the MMA type. The types of fighters found down in the slums tend to lean towards boxing and kickboxing—fighting styles that may be slightly easier to train in given the condition of their gyms and lack of formal trainers. Tifa has been lucky that renowned coach such as hers had taken her under his wing to mold her into the MMA fighter she is now, but that luck isn’t as handy at the moment.

These matches are strictly following kickboxing rules—a little more of a level playing field for people who come from boxing backgrounds to people with more martial arts in their regimens. So Tifa often finds herself having to constantly evaluate the situation and readjust her strategies on the fly. It’s a challenge, and normally one she’d be overjoyed to take on. But considering the stakes, the pressure to win doesn’t let her truly enjoy the moment. 

Her thighs feel like lead, but she remains on the balls of her feet. Her lungs are on the verge of screaming, but she keeps her mouth closed and breathes steadily through her nose. The thought of the money and keeping her bar, 7th Heaven, open is what keeps her in the fight.

Tifa’s opponent, unlike yesterday, is smaller but nimbler. He’s got the dexterity and reflexes of a cat, effectively anticipating and blocking every combination Tifa throws at him. And his legs never seem to tire, constantly shuffling in small increments, allowing him to readily dodge any direct kicks. She’s landed a few roundhouse kicks followed by a jab-cross combo on him, but that’s about it.

But he bobs up and down too much. He must be more of a boxer because his torso sways in U pattern left to right, and Tifa’s only just noticed it. While that may mean vigilance in boxing, in kickboxing it means momentum to be used against you. Tifa zeroes in on her opponent’s upper body and the corner of her mouth twitches.

She’s got this now.

Tifa lunges forward and times her left jab with when her opponent swings to the right, catching him mid-sway and causing his left arm to break out of his guard position, exposing his face. She then wastes no time, sending a fierce right cross into the opening he’s given her. He stumbles from the blow, and Tifa quickly follows it up with a left hook to the side of his head.

Her opponent falls backward from the sudden succession of blows. But he’s as quick with recovery as he is on his feet, and he props himself up with his elbows before the referee can even begin his countdown. Tifa remains undeterred. She’s got a bar to clean and have open tomorrow morning so Avalanche can host its weekly meeting—she won’t let this drag on longer than it has to.

It’s with a final, terrifying elbow, arcing up to gain momentum before barreling right into her opponent’s chest, that she wins that night’s match.

The crowd’s cheers have gotten exponentially louder than from last night.

When Tifa finally makes it back to her corner and belongings, she spies another flower, this time resting daintily on her dilapidated metal chair. The contrast between the two strikes Tifa, and she giggles before questioning Wedge again about the appearance of another flower. Wedge, once again, shrugs in uncertainty. This unsettles Tifa.

The flower is different than yesterday’s. Whereas yesterday’s gave Tifa a feeling of warmth, today’s prompts a blush that aches her cheeks when she tries to hide it, and she’s not sure why. It has six petals and looks oddly like a star if a star had six points. The petals are mostly a darker shade of pink, touched with a hint of red at the tips; and from the center blooms a white six-pointed star, bleeding into the center of each petal before fading into the pink. It’s loud, but soft. Audacious, but subtle.

“Your admirer’s got good taste,” Wedge comments, eyeing the flower in her hands. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Tifa frowns. “I’m not sure I like the idea of having an admirer. Don’t you think that’s a bit creepy?”

“Maybe. Not really? I dunno. I guess it depends on who it actually is,” Wedge replies. “Hey, what if it’s someone you know?”

Tifa shakes her head. “That’s not really possible. I didn’t tell anyone else about this except for you. Unless…”

She looks Wedge and the eye and squints, squaring her shoulders in an intimidation tactic.

“I didn’t tell anyone, I swear!” Wedge exclaims immediately, hands in the air in surrender position. “C’mon Tifa, I’d never do that.”

And Tifa knows he’s telling the truth. Wedge may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s one of the most loyal—as is just about everyone committed to AVALANCHE.

She sighs and relaxes her posture.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you Wedge,” she says, shaking her head. “And you’re probably right. It’s probably just someone with good intentions.”

Tifa absentmindedly raises the flower to her nose, inhaling its sent. She’s never been particularly great with gauging how desirable the scents of different flowers are—to her, the scent is usually so subtle, she barely remembers flowers have any scent at all—but she can tell that this one is fresh because the smell of early morning dew still lingers on it. Tifa cannot fathom who in all of the Midgar slums could nurture such a flower into existence, let alone give one to her.

 

* * *

 

She thought she’d banished the thought from her head the moment Wedge had proposed it, but, for some reason, Tifa can’t seem to dismiss the possibility. What if the flower admirer _is_ someone she knows?

Tifa pauses in wiping the bar down as her heart skips a beat in mild panic. Depending on who it is, perhaps it isn’t the _worst_ thing in the world. But she’d still have to be on her toes. The last thing she needs is to get arrested for illegal, underground fights and lose the bar—a haven for many and the one thing she’s trying to save with all this in the first place.

Well then, if it truly is someone she knows, who could it possibly be? Who could have figured it out? Tifa likes to think she’s been pretty inconspicuous about the whole ordeal. She closes the bar at the regular times every day. She’s mastered traveling across the sectors, turning all the right corners and shadows, to go unnoticed. And she knew for a fact that nobody in her life or in AVALANCHE frequented the ring that hosted the matches.

It would have to be someone who knows her well then. Well enough to notice she’s been sporting dark circles under her eyes lately and has bruised knuckles that never seem to actually heal.

Barret? Highly unlikely. He rarely openly showcases his emotions, but he doesn’t know squat about flowers. Jessie? Slightly more likely, but she’s a straightforward person. Tifa’d wager that if Jessie had found out that she’d have brought it up face to face. Marlene spends a good amount of time with Tifa, but she’s too young to have acquired the grace and stealth necessary for such an undertaking.

That leaves…Cloud?

Tifa reddens at the thought. Cloud certainly has the skills to pull the whole thing off without being seen. And he definitely knows Tifa well enough that he could have found out about her nightly activities if he’d wanted to. The question is, did he?

Rather than wait to confirm her suspicion, Tifa confronts it head-on.

When the party of AVALANCHErs return from their latest outing, Tifa beckons Cloud to the bar. On the counter is a little makeshift vase she’s made out of an empty alcohol bottle to hold the two exotic flowers. As Cloud approaches and takes a seat, she nudges it ever so slightly in his direction.

“Hey, what’s up?” Cloud asks, leaning onto the bar top, eyebrows raised. He doesn’t seem to notice the _incredibly_ noticeable flowers.

Tifa clears her throat in a very obvious _ahem_ manner and pushes the vase towards his direction again, letting it bump his forearm.

It’s another few seconds before Cloud comprehends what she’s getting at and he sees the brightly colored petals, eyes widening at them.

“Woah,” he breathes in amazement. “Where’d you get those?”

For someone who’s an ex-SOLDIER, Cloud has the perception of an absolute idiot sometimes.

Tifa furrows her brow.

“You mean they’re not from you?”

“What? No. I…wouldn’t even know where to find these,” Cloud answers, lifting a hand to stroke the delicate petals of the cinnamon bun looking one. “Why did you think it was me?”

“Uh…” Tifa starts, dipping her head so he wouldn’t have to see the embarrassment sprawling across her face. Of course it wasn’t him. Cloud always seems to have other things on his mind.

“Woah, hey! Those are gorgeous!” a voice exclaims, and Tifa looks back up to see Jessie heading over to their direction. “Where did you get those? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“I didn’t buy them,” Tifa mumbles, turning her gaze to her two flowers. It’s quite remarkable—it’s been 2 days since she’d gotten the first one, but it shows no signs of losing its brightness, let alone wilting. “Someone, uh, gave them to me.”

“Like, they just came into the bar and gave them to you?” Jessie asks. “Damn, they must really love your mixed drinks.”

Tifa snorts and shakes her head.

“No, I don’t know who gave them to me. I just uh—“she bites her lip, holding herself back from spilling her secret. “They were just there. I went away for a bit, and when I came back, there was a flower.”

Well, it technically isn’t a lie. She’s really not the best at that particular art, so she hopes this explanation will do.

Cloud frowns visibly. “Someone just left them for you? Tifa, do you have a stalker? If you do, then I can—”

 “No!” Tifa says, perhaps a little too quickly, which prompts a confused look out of Cloud. “It’s not a stalker. At least, I don’t think it is just yet. I mean, it’s only two flowers. I’m not really sure what it all means.”

“Hmm...” Jessie hums, leaning against the counter and resting her chin on her palm. “Hey, don’t flowers have meanings? Those are some pretty out-there lookin’ flowers. What if someone’s trying to tell you something with them?”

“You mean someone’s trying to send me a message?” Tifa clarifies, dubious about the suggestion. Her gaze flickers over to Cloud, who has the same uncertain look mirrored on his features.

“That’s a weird way to tell anyone anything but…it’s not impossible,” he says, shrugging his shoulders in the Cloud manner.

Tifa sighs and melts onto the bar’s top, laying her forearms flat, resting her chin on the tops of her hands, and staring at the flowers wistfully.

“Well, it wouldn’t even matter,” she mumbles. “I don’t know a thing about flowers.”

Cloud perks up at this.

“Wait, I do!” he declares, which earns him looks of confusion and bewilderment. He discerns the reason behind the surprised reaction and clarifies quickly, “Well, not _me_ exactly, but I know someone who might be able to help. I bumped into this one girl selling flowers in Sector 5 during one of the missions. Maybe she can help.”

This bit peaks Tifa’s interest.

“Well, that’s pretty handy, Cloud. What’s her name?”

“Uh,” Cloud hesitates, “I never got around to asking her. I kinda got on her bad side because I ran into her and then didn’t buy a flower. But, hey, I’m pretty sure if you walked around Sector 5, you could find her.”

Tifa simply melts back into her original position and sighs once more.

“Thanks Cloud,” she says.

She doesn’t mention that she barely has any time to sleep well anymore, let alone wander around Sector 5 to find a mysterious flower girl.

 

* * *

 

The next night Tifa manages to win her match, now cultivating a winning streak and an even bigger earning from the bets. She begins to feel hopeful when she counts through the stack of gil she’s handed at the end of the night, and even indulges a crowd of fans in making small conversation and giving out autographs. The atmosphere of these kinds of nights is starting to feel quite familiar now—the ring, the crowd, the cheers, the rickety metal chairs, the _winning._ What once felt like boiling alive in a pressure cooker now holds a semblance of a second home.

None of this cushions her from the utter exhaustion that clings to her bones like deadweight, though. She can think of doing absolutely nothing else aside from falling into her chair and curling up to sleep for the night right then and there. But, just like the past two nights, she does find something by her belongings to distract her from her wooziness.

Tonight, her salvation comes in the form of a white-petaled flower. At first, she mistakes it for a white rose, but upon closer inspection, the petals don’t wrap around one another in a rose’s manner. These petals are layered on top of each other, but are spread apart, as if arching to reach outside of themselves. Tifa finds herself amazed by its lack of bright colors—or any color for that matter. She can’t help but feel like this flower is bearing itself to her, plainly and simply. As if to call out “ _I’m here and I wish to tell you all I have inside me!”_

Curiosity is now a constant tug at her stomach, and she finds she simply can’t ignore it any longer. A different exotic flower every night after a win seems too meaningful to brush off as simply a gift from a fan any longer. If someone _is_ taking all this effort to communicate with her, she decides she doesn’t want to disappoint them.

 

* * *

 

The bar is busiest on Saturday nights, so Tifa keeps it open until the early hours of the night and doesn’t participate in the fights. This allows her to open the bar later in the day to compensate for its late hours, normally giving her a few hours on Saturday morning to sleep in.

They’re a few hours that she desperately needs, but they’re also the few hours she has free to wander around Sector 5 for the flower girl. Tifa decides there’s no point in trying to get some sleep if the mystery behind the flowers is keeping her awake.

Sector 5 doesn’t look too different in appearance from Sector 7, but Tifa doesn’t frequent it enough to know how to navigate her way through it. It takes an hour or so of wandering around and being utterly lost while keeping her eyes peeled for anyone that may fit Cloud’s vague description of the flower girl before Tifa finally decides to grab a bite to eat. And perhaps ask around for some directions.

It turns out, however, that all Tifa has to do is mention “flower girl” and suddenly everyone in the whole sector knows who she’s talking about. That can either be a really good thing or a really bad thing.

After a few pointers from the Sector 5 locals, Tifa sets off with a full stomach and half a heart towards a far corner of the sector. She’s only got about 2 more hours til the bar has to open, so she books it, wincing in the process—fighting every night after being on her feet at the bar everyday makes her thighs anything but happy these days.

Tifa never has to wonder if she’s reached the right location, or not, however. At some point during her hustle, her surroundings turn from that of an appearance typical of a slum to a small pocket of paradise. Before her stands a two-story house, a little on the older side, but charming nonetheless. And around it is a field of wild flowers, an arrangement of a rainbow more striking than any assortment of colors Tifa has seen in her life—bold reds, tender pinks, shy purples, peaceful blues.

These flowers…they shouldn’t be growing like this at all given the perpetual lack of sunlight under the plate. It’s as if this place has somehow resisted the ratty darkness of the rest of the slum, keeping the effects of poor maintenance on ShinRa’s part at bay. 

Girl selling flowers living in a house of flowers. At this rate, Tifa wondes if the girl herself will be made of flowers. The thought causes her to giggle unconsciously.

“Care to share the joke?”

Tifa startles and whips around, not having noticed that someone else was there. She blinks, taking in the girl in front of her: she’s a few inches shorter than Tifa with her hair pulled back into a ponytail braid, bangs elegantly framing the angles of her face. She seems to made of shades of pink and red, from her long dress and short jacket to her rose tinted cheeks and bright lips. A basket of flowers dangles from one of her arms.

Huh. This must be the flower girl.

“Joke?” Tifa asks, still recovering from her surprise.

“Something made you laugh,” the girl says, tilting her head to the side. “What was it?”

“Oh, uh,” Tifa hesitates. She’d rather not tell this person she’d entertained the inane thought that the girl might be made of actual flowers. “Just a weird thought. I can’t even remember it anymore.”

“Hm, well I’m jealous of it. The thing that made you laugh,” the girl says.

Tifa raises an eyebrow. That’s a rather odd thing to say. “Why?”

“Because it got you to laugh all cutely and stuff,” the mystery girl says with a straight face. “And you look like you haven’t had a good laugh in a while.”

A blush creeps up Tifa’s neck and blooms in her cheeks before she can do anything to hide it. Whether it’s due to the fact that this girl may have just flirted with her or that her exhaustion is written that plainly on her face (or both) Tifa isn’t sure. But she’s now confirmed that she’s nothing less than an open book, and the other girl seems to be unashamedly reading all of her given the playful grin adorning her face.

“Are you the flower girl?” she blurts in an attempt to direct the conversation elsewhere, then cringes internally at how ridiculous that sounded.

It’s the other girl’s turn to laugh, and Tifa can’t help but equate it to the chime of a bell in the gentle breeze.

“Is that what they’re calling me out there? Unoriginal, but understandable, I guess,” she remarks. “Were you looking for me?”

If Tifa had known this girl for longer than a few moments, then she would have wondered if the tone that laces her question has a hint of hopefulness to it. But she hasn’t, so she doesn’t think much of it.

“Yes, actually,” Tifa says, finally finding her footing in this interaction. “I was wondering about the meanings behind different flowers and I was hoping you could help me with that.”

The girl blinks, taken aback. It’s clear that this is not a matter people come to her asking about very often, if at all. This isn’t very surprising—nobody will inquire after things they don’t see every day in their lives.

The girl recovers quickly, however, delight lighting up her face and casting out her brief confusion.

“Of course!” she exclaims, eyes bright with giddy enthusiasm, like that of a child’s when spotting sweets in the shop window. It manages to stir excitement into Tifa’s spirit as well—she’s almost forgotten her earlier fatigue.

The girl makes her way around Tifa and up the pathway towards her house, the hem of her pink skirt swaying with in harmony with the pink flowers lining the path. Tifa remains glued in place, watching after and wondering if, perhaps, this girl is one with the Planet.

Foolish, such a thought. But this mysterious flower girl inspires it all the same.

“Hey!” her voice rings out from the house’s doorway, pervading Tifa’s odd ponderings. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, I’m coming!” Tifa calls back, slightly embarrassed, and jogs up the path.

The best way to describe the flower girl’s house is _cozy._

  
The doorway opens into a small living space and dining area decorated with furniture made of chipping painted white wood. A rug, a worn but resistant light pink, blankets the old wooden flooring as tapestries of various sizes dance across the faded walls in tender shades of white, pink, red, and purple. Something about it all weaves an illusion of freshness and luminescence that is never quite present in the slums. The house is old and small, but its charm tricks the beholder into viewing quite the opposite.

Tifa sighs as the sight tugs at her heartstrings. She'd left this sense of comfort behind when she'd moved away from Nibelheim and its countryside to Midgar and its industry. She didn't think she'd ever feel it again.

The girl doesn't tell Tifa to take off her shoes, but she does so all the same. It feels disrespectful, in a way, to disturb the peace of this home with the filth of Midgar.

"Would you like some tea?" the girl asks, setting down her basket on the dining table.

"Oh! Yeah, I would. If it's not too much trouble," Tifa replies.

The girl merely beams and turns towards the kitchen. It fleetingly occurs to Tifa that she's on a tight schedule--the bar needs to open in a few hours—but she has no motivation to break this comfortable...no, _safe_ atmosphere.

As the girl busies herself with preparing the kettle, Tifa lets her eyes wander around the the rest of the house. The ground level houses nothing more than the combined living and dining area and the small kitchen, which means the bedrooms must be upstairs. But signs of life still permeate the first floor.

A knitted shawl likely worn by someone much older than the flower girl lays draped over one of the wooden chairs tucked under the dining table. Her mother's perhaps? Tifa continues to glance about: reading glasses on the dining table, two dishes in the sink, and ah. A photograph.

It hangs in a timeworn frame on the far wall of the dining area and the picture itself is of an older quality. Still, if Tifa squints, she can just make out the two figures, one shorter and younger and the other taller and older. The younger, Tifa guesses, must be Aerith, which means the older is her mother.

Even as she smiles, a lump threatens to form in Tifa's throat. She's just met a girl who lives in a house that makes her feel at home, she can't help but think of her own late mother. The one she misses no less than the day before.

"Do you have a name or shall I just keep calling you 'Knuckles Girl'?" the flower girl demands, returning to the dining area with two teacups balanced on one hand and a kettle of tea in the other.

Somehow she always knows how to break Tifa's reveries at just the right moment, as if she almost does it on purpose.

"'Knuckles Girl?'" Tifa asks, puzzled.

The other girl hums and takes a seat at one end of the small table, lifting the kettle to pour the tea. Tifa mirrors her and sits across from her.

"That's right. Don't think I didn't notice how banged up your knuckles look. You don't look like the type to get mad often. Or is it something else, I wonder? " the flower girl remarks, gently pushing a full teacup in Tifa's direction.

Tifa stares at the girl, befuddled, before glancing down at her hands. She'd forgotten to wrap her knuckles this morning, and the raw, broken skin shines bright red. Tifa immediately covers one with the other and folds both hands into her lap, suddenly overcome by self-consciousness.

"I do it because I have to," Tifa says, voice soft with the shame of being found out. She's never hidden that she's a fighter, but there's hardly any nobility or respectfulness for what she puts her skills to use in around common society.

"Oooh," the flower girl remarks, leaning forward on her elbows and sipping her tea with a dainty slurp. Her eyes gleam of intrigue. "So how about 'Mystery Girl' then?"

A blush creeps up Tifa's neck and into her cheeks as she tries her best to retain her composure under the flower girl's mischievous scrutiny.

"Only if I have to keep calling you Flower Girl," she replies, cupping the teacup in both hands and lifting it to her lips. The tea is hot enough to burn the tip of her tongue, but it's a welcome and distracting sensation nonetheless. "But I'd prefer it if you called me Tifa."

The flower girl blinks, then sets her tea down and covers her mouth as she giggles.

Tifa thinks even a bell with the most angelic toll would be jealous.

"Oh, well then, 'Mystery Girl' doesn't hold a candle to a name like Tifa," the girl says, settling down and taking another sip of tea. "And you can call me 'Flower Girl' if you like, but my friends call me Aerith."

Tifa has to try quite hard not to choke on her scalding hot tea with the flower girl—Aerith—winks at her.

Then Tifa holds her sip just long enough for the teacup to cover yet another blush before she sets the cup back down and wipes her mouth using the back of her hand. With some flourish.

She's a mixed martial artist, and a good one at that. She's not one to remain off balance for so long. At some point she has to steady herself, then target the other's equilibrium.

When Aerith raises her brow, lips slightly parted in surprise, Tifa masks the lilt of victory on her lips with another sip.

“So,” Aerith starts, clearing her throat (and in doing so, allowing Tifa to bathe in a small victory), “you have a flower problem you need help with.”

“Right! Yes!” Tifa exclaims. She sits up straight, once again alert to the true situation at hand. This was supposed to be a straightforward morning—how had she been getting so distracted? Doesn’t matter. She becomes aware of the small pack she’s been carrying on her back all morning, the one she’s been careful not to jostle too much or even put down.

Gingerly, Tifa unslings the pack over her shoulder and sets it in her lap, silently praying its contents hadn’t wilted. Opening the bag, Tifa sighs visibly with relief as she reaches in and pulls out the near-pristine flowers.

They’ve dulled to a degree, but have held on impressively so. All three flowers rest in an empty beer bottle that Tifa had cleaned out and filled with water. She feels ashamed that the only home she’d had to give them was a used bottle once full of cheap beer—these wonderful, dainty blossoms deserved a vase worth their beauty. But the slums don’t have flowers, so nobody makes vases.

“I didn’t have anything else to put them in,” Tifa mutters, hoping Aerith won’t judge her for the blatant disrespect, but Aerith’s eyes only light up with delight.

“How gorgeous!” she remarks, caressing the cinnamon bun looking flower with slender finger tips, as if she were stroking an infant’s cheek. “You’ve maintained them really well. This one looks good for being in a bottle for 3 days.”

"How did you know I've had that one for three days?" Tifa asks, though she's only half curious. She's also half mesmerized at the way Aerith seems drawn to the flowers, as if they whisper to her in a manner that only she can hear and understand.

"Oh, just intuition, I suppose," Aerith replies, waving the question off with her hand. "I am the flower girl after all, as you say."

She turns her attention back to Tifa and playfully winks again, though this time, Tifa doesn't startle. She keeps her composure and purses her lips to suppress an amused smile.

"Now who's out there selling you these kinds of flowers," Aerith continues with a pout and a _hmph!_ "It looks like I may have some competition in the slums!"

Tifa shakes her head. "I didn't buy them, they were gifts," she answers, voice soft. "Of sorts. Í'm not really sure who gave them to me, actually, so I don't know."

"Oh? An admirer?" Aerith asks, her interest piqued and a hint of mischief gleaming in her bright eyes.

"Maybe. I really can't be sure if it's a run-of-the-mill fan type of admirer or if it's someone trying to tell me something," Tifa says, shrugging, then quickly adding, "Not that I'd have a fan or a fan base for any reason. I meant like a uh. Just a random admirer, maybe. That's why I wanted to know if these flowers had any special meanings. Maybe it'll help me figure out what to do."

Aerith nods in a contemplative manner, playfulness melting away into...seriousness, but mixed with something else. Hesitation? Apprehension? Just something that causes Aerith to flit her gaze from Tifa to the flowers and back to Tifa too quickly to be innocent.It would have gone unnoticed by most, but Tifa's spent years training to read body language in order to anticipate her opponent's next move. She knows a shifty look when she sees one.

Why Aerith could possibly be any level of conflicted about this is a mystery to her.

"Alright then, I'll help you," Aerith proclaims at last, nodding her head in a gesture of finality. "Let's start with this beauty, shall we?"

She runs her fingertips over petals of each flower again before gently cupping the bright cinnamon bun looking flower between her middle and ring fingers and freeing it from the bottle.

"This is a ranunculus," Aerith says lifting the blossom to her cheek. "It blooms best in the cooler seasons and likes to sleep during the days when the sun is out the longest. If I'm not mistaken, you give someone a ranunculus to tell them you find them charming or attractive."

Despite her resolve to maintain her composure, Tifa feels her cheeks heat up like furnace beneath her skin.

"Oh? Well then, that's…" she stammers, taken aback. She can't seem to do anything about the blush flourishing across her face, so she ducks her head to avoid meeting the smirk glinting in Aerith's eyes, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and clears her throat. "What about the others?"

Caressing the vivid ranunculus in her right hand, Aerith reaches for the red and white blossom—the second flower Tifa had received.

“Amaryllis,” she hums as she plucks it out of the bottle. This flower has a smaller blossom than the ranunculus, allowing Aerith to twirl it easily between her fingers. “This one means a splendid beauty, one beyond beautiful. Well, how kind!”

Aerith stills the amaryllis and reaches towards Tifa, who sits still, breath hitching as Aerith daintly tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear and places the amaryllis amongst the strands. Then she pauses, fingers frozen an inch from Tifa’s ear, lips parted in partly concealed bewilderment, soft eyes raking over Tifa’s face as if she’s only just understood the gesture she’s made.

Tifa’s cheeks are a mere spark away from catching fire, and her brain is on the verge of short circuiting as she battles overthinking the situation with not thinking about it at all.

Luckily for her, Aerith recovers quite quickly, masking her moment of vulnerability with that bell chime laughter of hers. It’s enough to call a shaky stalemate between Tifa’s warring thoughts—a clear, fresh tone amongst a cacophonous battlefield.

Tifa has to wonder how many times Aerith has had to do this. Cover the holes with laughter the way she covers the slums in flowers.

“It suits you!” Aerith proclaims, leaning back in her chair.

Tifa traces the soft petals of the amaryllis and smiles.

“I haven’t worn a flower in my hair since I left home,” she says, a dull ache accompanying that smile.

“You’re not from Midgar,” Aerith states, tilting her head with childlike curiosity. “So where’s home?”

Tifa absentmindedly rubs a single petal between her thumb and index finger.

“I’m not too sure anymore,” she admits, meeting Aerith’s eyes.

Though nothing has been said, it’s clear through body language alone that the both of them have more buried within themselves than others can guess. Aerith plants and nurtures small wonders around herself to distract the eye while Tifa beats her skeletons back with her fists, each bruise a new gravestone. Aerith laughs it all away. Tifa takes a battle stance.

And Aerith responds by cooling the mirth in her eyes, shifting from playful to sage.

“Then make a new home,” she says like it’s the simplest idea in the world. She returns the ranunculus to the bottle and lifts the final flower, the pure white one. “And then you can decorate it how you like. I think a gardenia like this would look good catching light on a windowsill.”

Tifa quirks her lips and nods, stowing the tip away for later. Her place above the bar probably could use some embellishment.

“Gardenia,” she repeats. “Let me guess, this one says that I smell very lovely.”

Aerith giggles, hiding her blush behind the ranunculus still in her right hand.

“Well, I think flowers telling others they smell lovely is a little counterintuitive don’t you think? They’re the ones that make things smell nice, after all,” she points out.

“Well, you never know,” Tifa replies. “Maybe flowers are narcissists.”

“Now _that’s_ a theory,” Aerith hums, twirling the gardenia. “Maybe you should write a book about it. I’ll read that one too. Might help the next soul that needs help. But, you’re a little off the nose. A gardenia symbolizes a secret love. Someone thinks you’re quite lovely.”

Aerith’s features soften, and a thoughtful smile graces her lips as she holds the gardenia out in her palm for Tifa.

“I’ll have to admit, I’m a little jealous,” she says, catching Tifa’s bewildered eyes. “I think someone’s got a little more than a crush on you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the wee hours of the morning when Tifa finally finishes tidying up the bar and heads to bed. Physically she’s the most drained she’s been all week—being a bartender is a demanding position on a Saturday night when everyone from every corner of the sector strolls in looking for several drinks to drown in and a free place to unload all the baggage off their shoulders. Tifa’s sure she’ll be fast asleep before her head even hits her pillow.

Except it’s now been ten minutes since she’s nestled beneath the covers and beat the pillow to make it more comfortable for her head, and she _still_ can’t sleep. Her mind is racing, calling upon scenes from her meeting with Aerith earlier that day. The old house covered in flowers, the girl who laughs like bells, the flowers whispering their admiration of Tifa—it all runs through her head like haphazardly sewn patches of a quilt, overlaying and running into each other until the seams between moments make no sense anymore and Tifa’s left with a pile of jumbled feelings in her stomach.

 A stranger is sending her flowers.

(She’s envious of the house with a garden of flowers.)

The flowers are compliments.

(The gardenia _does_ look good catching the moonlight in her window.)

They progress like childish love notes tucked into the pocket of a school bag.

(Aerith is extraordinary.)

Tifa turns to her other side for the hundredth time, sighs heavily, and opens her eyes. There, basking in the glow of the moon, is the book of flower meanings sitting on her bedside table. Aerith had given it to her as a parting gift. Apparently some guy had fallen from the sky into the Sector 5 church and had brought her the book from above the Plate one day. Tifa had been hesitant about taking something that had clearly been a previous token of affection, but Aerith had assured her it was hers to pass onto whomever she liked. Besides, it would do much better in Tifa’s possession—Aerith had read it over too many times to count and it was starting to become an eyesore.

Burying herself under the covers until the moonlight is but a slit in the periphery of her vision, Tifa breathes in the oddly comforting scent of the stale linen, anchoring her thoughts to a standstill. Over the years, she’s instilled a fighter’s discipline to focus on what’s important in her bones, a hard-earned technique that’s clawed her out of exponentially more difficult times than this. They’re simply flowers. It’s simply a fan.

(Aerith is simply a new friend.)

It’ll do her no good to allow her brain to blow the whole thing out of proportion. What matters now is a good night’s sleep, good and hearty meals tomorrow, and another good win at night.

Tifa sighs again, this time more at ease, and lets the oncoming heaviness drag her eyelids close. That night she dreams she’s falling, though she’s no longer panicked about it—as if she’s been falling for quite some time now. The hope of being caught remains, but it flickers like a candle’s flame in the night breeze. Suddenly she crashes through the roof of an old house and lays flat on her back on a faded wooden floor. A girl with a braid full of flowers, or flowers for a braid—Tifa isn’t sure—looks down upon her and smiles. Tifa feels no pain.

The taste of sawdust and the rough, worn down surface of the ring fills Tifa’s mouth, drying her tongue until she feels like it will choke her. And maybe she is choking. She can’t tell, what with her blood pounding around her head and ears. Tifa is sure the crowd must be losing their shit right about now, but she only knows that from experience—all she can see now is the world out of focus and all she can feel is her bones through the ground like it’s made of quicksand.

After what seems like minutes but must have only been a few seconds, sound returns slowly but surely to her hears. The crowd’s roar returns to her in an overwhelming crescendo, and it’s only by luck that she catches the referee’s voice amongst it all.

“7.”

Huh?

“6.”

That’s…a countdown.

“5.”

It’s a _countdown,_ meaning Tifa is _down._ She’s had the wind knocked out of her and has lain on the ground five seconds too many. Five more and she loses.

“4.”

The crowd is screaming now, some chanting with the referee, but most calling a name. _Her_ name. They want her to get up. They want her to win. She wants to win. _She needs_ to win.

“3.”

Panic streaks through her veins like static electricity, jolting her brain alert. She knows she can't afford to lose this fight. There's simply too much at stake.

 _The bar,_ she thinks. _Do it for the bar._

But her muscles remain stubborn and refuse the calls of her brain. Her bones feel even heavier. She tries to picture the bar: the dark, chipped but polished wooden counter top, the light drizzle of patrons scattered across the tables having lulled conversations, the AVALANCHE members bursting through the front door and hustling to the concealed elevator to reach their hideout. Marlene peeking out from behind her in tentative curiosity as Cloud pulls out the latest souvenir he'd happened to pick up on the mission and then meets Tifa's eyes as if to silently ask her if he's doing the right thing.

_Do it for your home._

"2."

But it's not home. At least not yet. It's the shell of a shelter that Tifa has been trying to create for herself, but it only fits that description in that it puts a roof over her head. Something is missing. Even with the little piece of home now that is Cloud, there is something incomplete about it. A hole in Tifa's life that has only been growing bigger and bigger since she'd lost her mother, then the rest of her world. Maybe it's not worth it. Maybe it's okay if she loses it all. She's used to losing things.

The image of the bar fades from Tifa's head, but as it does so, her mind's eyes catches the empty beer bottle with three flowers that has become the newest addition to the scenery.

_The flowers._

_"1!"_

Her muscles finally twitch, then stir. Tifa's arms tingle as feeling surges back through her nerves, and she gingerly brings them up, palms to the floor as she searches for any last reserves of strength.

The flowers. One will be waiting for her after this match, she's sure of it. Tifa wonders what it will be this time. She wants to love it. Wants to take it home and put it in her makeshift vase and gaze at it, wondering what it means and what the person who gave it to her is thinking. Maybe it will be blue this time. Or purple. That would look nice with the rest of them.

If she loses, she'll hate it.

She doesn't want to hate it.

With a low groan that surges into a battle cry, Tifa pushes down with all her might and pulls her torso up off the ground. The air bursts with loud gasps, cheers and screams, but Tifa shuts it all out as all her sense switch to tunnel vision. She has one goal and one goal only. Nothing else matters.

The same tingling sensation from earlier prickles through her legs and she brings them up, finding her knees and then her balance. Tifa turns to find her opponent looking stunned and the referee already stepping back, putting the whistle back in his mouth. Something warm trickles down the corner of her mouth, and she wipes with the back of her hand, not thinking twice about the blood streaked across her hand wraps.

That night, Tifa staggers into the bar supported by Wedge. She remains quiet as he brings out the first aid kit stowed behind the bar and begins to tend to her wounds, rambling on about how crazy that night had been. If only she could have seen herself; it'd been as if she'd risen from the dead given how wild the crowd had gone.

When she's clean and coated in fresh bandages, Tifa bids Wedge a safe night and stumbles up the stairs to her bedroom, ignoring the stabbing pain of her wounds. She has no idea how she'll manage to get out of bed in the morning, let alone fight tomorrow's match, but that's tomorrow's problem.

Resisting every urge to simply collapse onto her bed, Tifa merely lays her bag down and picks up the book of flower meanings. She allows herself to sit on her mattress and lean against the headboard, but not before leaning over and pulling out her latest reward: a small, flower with a large, dark center and elegant light-indigo petals.

It's simple in its beauty, nothing extravagant in color like the first two or gaze drawing in its purity like the gardenia. But something about it tugs at the heartstrings, constricting the breath as it's hinting at something more than it is.

Tifa lays it next to her and opens the book. It's quite large, with several different types of flowers adorning every page, but Tifa keeps at it, not resting until she's found what she's looking for.

Anemone.

The flower's petals are nothing special, but its large center gives it away, and Tifa is sure this is the one. Anemone.

_Anticipation._

And maybe that's exactly what Tifa's feeling in her gut as she looks down at this flower, what she's been feeling all night. Anticipation. But what is the giver anticipating?

The first two flowers were compliments. The third was a whispered confession of infatuation. If anticipation is next, then...do they intend on revealing themselves soon? Or are they hoping for Tifa to notice them? Tifa can't make heads or tails of it, but one thing's for sure: something about receiving this flower is like a deep breath before the plunge.

But what plunge?

* * *

 

Tifa's eyes shoot open as dawn yawns and stretches its arms into the sky. She's not in a cold sweat, and she hadn't dreamt that night. No, she wakes with a revelation.

The flowers. _Anticipation._

The organization that hosts these underground fighting matches bestows a special prestige upon the fighter that wins five fights in a row. Though these matches are by no means part of any organized tournament, the fighters who participate are all the cream of the crop. Defeating any five of them, and as part of a streak no less when the body is already tired and barely recovered from all the other matches, is a worth a badge of honor and double the pay day. Tifa has had four straight victories. Tonight is her chance to get her fifth.

So what if the flowers coincide with that? What if someone—a fan, a young girl looking for a role model, and admirer--is counting on her fifth win? _Anticipating_ it?

Tifa isn't sure what it is, but something about those flowers has become incredibly important to her over the last week. Like she's on the verge of grasping what she's missing, and it's tickling her fingers, but she just needs to get a little closer. She has absolutely no idea why on earth an anonymous gift of flowers would compel such emotions out of her, but they do. And suddenly, getting that fifth win seems more important than it has ever been.

As Tifa hobbles down the stairs to fix herself a cup of coffee, ignoring the reawakened ache in her limbs, she wonders if perhaps there's someone she's wishing those flowers were from. Is that why they mean so much?

But whom could she possibly want them to be from? Briefly, her thoughts flit to Cloud. It's unsurprising that her first instinct is to think of him—he's a relic from home and a mystery she's been trying to unravel since he got to Midgar. She's watched him when he isn't looking and she's blushed when he smiles at her.

To Tifa's surprise, that thought doesn't linger for very long, and is instead replaced by another. The image of chipping white wood, a kettle on the stove, and a girl humming while she waters flowers at a window sill takes over. The girl has long, caramel colored hair tied back in a loose braid, and eyes so bright one would think they were catching the sun if the Plate weren't covering it.

Tifa doesn’t notice how lost in thought she is until hot coffee stings her skin. Yelping at the overflowed cup, Tifa quickly cleans up the mess she’d made, and blushes the entire time.

 

* * *

 

But no matter how many times she wills herself back onto her feet, Tifa simply cannot muster the coordination needed to flawlessly land a combo. And her opponent is aware of it. He jeers at her, calling her names and taunts to try to further put her off her game. His words don’t bother her—it’s a rookie mistake to fall for such tactics. But her head is swimming and her limbs are screaming. She can barely see straight, and all she wants is to close her eyes for a second, maybe two. Even if that’ll mean the end of her night.

Yet, she stays on her feet. She’s overcome with this almost maniacal idea that she simply _cannot_ lose, even if it’s her health at stake. Her bar is counting on her, but no more than it does any other night. No, tonight, someone else is counting on her to win. This fifth win is for that person. She will prevail for her.

( _Her_? That’s silly. Focus, Tifa.)

Minutes later, she finds herself once again eating a mouthful of dust. But this time, she simply cannot will herself back onto her feet. Her head is drowning in a darkness that overcomes her like molasses, her muscles scream as her bones crumble, and the only thought that she can muster through the pain and humiliating defeat before she blacks out is—

_I’m sorry._

 

* * *

 

Tifa doesn’t remember being officially declared as down and therefore the loser. She doesn’t remember the crowd gasping in shock, then descending into a riot as support and disappointment clash. She doesn’t remember being led off the ring by Wedge, frantically asking her if she’s okay and pouring water down her mouth in the hopes of keeping her awake.

When she finally comes to herself, Tifa is slung over Wedge, her legs deadweight. They’ve just about reached her little corner of the ring where her belongings are stowed, but they aren’t moving any closer. Confused and still dazed, Tifa glances over at Wedge, who starts at her regained consciousness and betrays his hesitation at the same time.

“There’s—“ Wedge starts, eyes flitting to her corner and back.

Furrowing her brow, Tifa turns her head back and attempts to focus her vision. She’d lost this match. There shouldn’t be any flower waiting for her. She’d failed the flower giver. She’d failed herself.

And there is no flower waiting for her this time. There is, instead, a girl.

A girl whose hair is pulled back, but loose strands elegantly frame her face; whose previously bright eyes are now darkened with worry.

“Aerith?” Tifa manages to slur, her heart, which had found its way back to a resting pulse, now threatening to beat out of her chest again.

“Tifa!” Aerith cries and rushes over to her and Wedge. She takes Tifa’s bruised face in her hands and gently runs her thumbs over her cheeks, eyes scouring the newly acquired wounds. “Are you alright? My God, you look dreadful.”

Tifa snorts dejectedly. Blood drips out of her nose. “Should see the other guy.”

Aerith pauses and stares at her sharply. “That’s not funny.”

Tifa sighs and hangs her head, the shame weighing more than her bodyweight. Wedge nudges her forward, and she complies, dragging her feet however she can until Wedge deposits her in her chair. Aerith follows and sits on her knees in front of Tifa.

“You there, get her some more water,” Aerith says to Wedge, who immediately nods and jogs off.

“What are you doing here, Aerith?” Tifa mumbles, peeking through the loose locks of her hair at the extraordinary girl in front of her.

Aerith shakes her head. “More importantly, what are _you_ doing, Tifa? You were in no shape to fight tonight and you should have known better. Why did you do it?”

Tifa shrugs. There’s no point in keeping it all in now. It’s all over.

“You know what I said about the flowers? And how someone was giving them to me? Someone left me one here after every fight. I thought that if I lost, they’d stop gifting them to me.”

Aerith glares at her incredulously. “You’ve got to be _kidding_ me. You put yourself through hell just for a few flowers? Tifa, do you know how dangerous— “

“ _Yes,_ ” Tifa says through gritted teeth. She balls her fists at her sides, her knuckles crying in agony. “I know. It was stupid. But I just. I didn’t want to disappoint them. I don’t know why. Maybe because I was hoping they were someone I knew. Someone— “

“Tifa, you beautiful _idiot_ ,” Aerith exclaims and rests her forehead on Tifa’s knees in exasperation. “I didn’t care about your wins. I would have given you those flowers regardless.”

Tifa blinks, startled, as she tries to process what Aerith’s just said. There’s no way she’d heard that right. Embarrassment weaves its way into the shame as she reflects on her fantasy from earlier that morning.

“That. What. You?” she stutters out, brain now truly short circuiting.

Aerith lifts her head and nods, a pensive smile adorning her lips.

“I come here quite often. It’s good for business. And I’ve been watching you fight for some time now, Tifa Lockhart. Then a few days ago I decided to start leaving your flowers. Maybe I thought if I left a little piece of me behind, I wouldn’t find myself thinking about you so much. And then you had to show up at my doorstep. I definitely wasn’t counting on that. Guess you’re beautiful and intuitive.”

Tifa gazes back at Aerith, bewildered. She’s sure her jaw has dropped open, but she can’t really muster the energy to do anything about it at the moment. All of her brainpower is put forth into stringing together what all of it means.

Aerith had been the one leaving her the flowers all this time. Tifa had been to her house, asked her about the flowers, and _still_ never knew. Hindsight being twenty/twenty, she has no idea how she could have been so obtuse. Neither of them had been particularly great at hiding themselves from the other.

Minutes of silence idle by and neither girl moves an inch. Though the other masks it well, Tifa can sense Aerith’s anxiety at the way the pads of her fingertips press into Tifa’s knees. She feels awful about it, but Tifa needs some time to compose her thoughts, to put into perspective everything she’s thought and experienced in the last week.

Finally, she licks hesitantly, then speaks.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Hm?” Aerith hums, meeting Tifa’s eyes.

“I…I kind of wanted it to be you,” Tifa admits. She forces herself to hold eye contact despite the intense blush crawling up her neck.

Aerith’s eyes widen, then her face lights up like hundreds of lanterns on a festival night.

“Yeah?” she asks hopefully.

Tifa nods shyly, face heated with a blush she knows won’t go away any time soon.

Aerith bites her lip and grins, clearly holding back the extent to which she’s about to burst with happiness. In her excitement, she reaches up to take hold of Tifa’s face once again, though this time her thumb presses into a particularly tender wound. Tifa winces and instinctively pulls back hissing.

“Sorry, sorry!” Aerith says, immediately drawing her hands away. “But, in that case, I have something for you.”

Before Tifa can ask what it is, Aerith reaches into the folds of her skirt and pulls out a slightly crushed pink flower. Tifa recognizes this one—she’d seen them in the wild growing up in Nibelheim. They grew like the slow unfolding of a kiss. She'd often drawn them at home, always 3 petals, though they always had more.

A tulip.

Tifa takes the flower with unsteady hands and simply cannot take her eyes off it.

“What does it mean?” she asks softly.

Aerith smirks mischievously and takes Tifa’s hands in her own to help steady them.

“Guess you’ll have to look it up.”

Tifa hangs her head again, though this time to stifle the goofiest grin she has ever worn on her face.

 

* * *

 

It’s not irregular to see Aerith, the flower girl, at the bar called the 7th Heaven these days. In fact, she drops by at least once a day. The regulars at the bar have become accustomed to her presence, however new it may be. When they ask her what a fine lady like herself is doing in such a place, she tells them she’s got a little thing for the bartender.

And then she has the god awful _audacity_ to wink at Tifa while she’s mixing drinks. Truly, it’s a miracle Tifa hasn’t gotten an order wrong yet. Aerith likes to tell her it’s because she’s got the coordination of a martial artist. Maybe she should consider fighting down at the gym in Sector 6 sometime.

Which Tifa still does do, but not illegally anymore and not every day. She’ll stop in and go for a couple of rounds whenever she’s got some free time, but her days of fighting in the underground for money are over. At Aerith and Wedge’s behest, she’d finally revealed her financial troubles to Cloud and the rest of the AVALANCHE crew, who, in turn, made it their personal mission to secure at least another year’s lease for the bar.

Aerith and Cloud have taken to each other pretty well too. If Tifa is easy to fluster, then Cloud really stands no chance, and Aerith takes full advantage of the fact. The sight never fails to make Tifa laugh. It’s only then does she realize how long it’s been since she’s laughed like it’s from deep within her gut. Laughed like she means it.

As Tifa takes to wiping down empty glasses with a washcloth, she surveys the rest of the bar from the merry members of AVALANCHE playing cards at the back tables to Cloud watching with his arms folded. To Aerith leaning against the wall, eager for a chance to learn and play the game. To the window that’s open slightly ajar to let in the night’s cool breeze. At its window sill sits a vase—a proper vase—serving as a home to an assortment of flowers constructed by Tifa herself with Aerith’s guidance.

In the center of the bouquet stands the pink tulip—the fifth flower Aerith had presented her with.

_A declaration of love._

Tifa smiles. She may not have known where home was, but she’s well on her way to making a new one.

Aerith briefly turns away from the game and waves at her, blowing her a kiss.

Tifa catches it.

See? She’s already started decorating.

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter! ](https://twitter.com/tifalockharte)


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